Lon Roberts

Waiting at the light at 24th and Guadalupe, where she asked to be dropped off, I watched Bly walk away, glancing back and waving before disappearing in a throng of long-haired students. Why hadn’t I asked to stay in touch? Why hadn’t I invited her to dinner as a thank-you for her advice? Well, I hadn’t, and in truth I knew why. In any case, I heeded Bly’s advice in preparing for my second interview with John Garner—so much so that the article I wound up writing featured Ettie Garner, rather than her husband. The article not only passed Joe Cannon’s encyclopedia test, it also earned a nomination for the Pulitzer Prize. I hoped the article would somehow reconnect us, that Bly would perhaps drop by my office and heap praise on my article or even send a card congratulating me on my literary masterpiece … that she would gush and I would feign humility. None of that happened of course. Still, fantasies die hard, if they die at all. I eventually moved on, thanks in part to my workload and partly to a toxic relationship that exhausted my desire to engage in another. Had I tried I likely could have found her, but I reasoned it was up to her if our paths were to cross again. After all, I barely knew her. After all, I was old enough to be her father. After all she had a career ahead of her. After all I had no idea what would happen next if the other after-alls didn’t matter.

* * *

The problem with writing an article that receives acclaim is the self-imposed pressure from trying to keep it up. By now—three years after that Sunday in 1963—I had gotten pretty good at ferreting out the story that hadn’t been told. That’s what drew me to Washington-on-the-Brazos. I had heard some interesting artifacts had recently been discovered so I drove the hundred miles to Brenham, checked into a hotel, then headed to Washington-on-the-Brazos State Park. My first reaction was disappointment. Above ground, at least, it could have passed for just another pasture with oak trees scattered here and there. There was little evidence it had once been the center of a thriving community, a busy port for transporting goods down the Brazos to the Gulf of Mexico. Also, there were few reminders it had been the birthplace of the Texas Republic and the command post for Sam Houston during the thirteen days his army battled Santa Anna at the Alamo.
 
            I had read that the old La Bahia Trail ran through this area, crossing the Brazos River near the place where the Navasota flows into the Brazos from the east. In my mind I pictured those who had traveled this trail over the centuries: the trappers, the traders, the early settlers, the European explorers—and long before any of those, the Indians in pursuit of the migratory animals that beat out the trail to begin with. Hoping a walk along the trail would spawn an idea for my next article, that’s where I headed.
 
            Despite a recent rain the soil along the river was firm. Like blood seeping into a fresh wound, each footprint left a shoe-shaped impression that slowly filled with water. I had only walked a few yards up the bank when a glint of light caught the corner of my eye. I stopped, stepped back, and then moved my head at different angles, trying to find the right combination of position and motion to make it reappear. When that failed I stepped off the path and squatted, balancing myself with the fingertips of one hand while combing my other hand in the damp soil beneath the sparse grass. Just as I was about to give up I had success. I picked up the object and immediately it glistened in the sunlight. It consisted of a cluster of small, silver-gray cubes bound together in various arrays. Also, it was heavy for its size. Not given to talking to myself, in my excitement I blurted out the word, silver.
 
            “No, it’s galena, not silver.”
 
            Bly’s voice startled me, causing me to lose my balance and lunge forward into the wet soil on my hands and knees. At that point we both laughed. “My God woman, you have a knack for spooking me,” I said once I was erect. “I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, mine are a little dirty.”
 
            “In that case,” she said, “I’ll settle for a hug.”
 
            “Okay, so tell me, what exactly is galena? It’s priceless, I assume.”
 
            “Well, let’s see. It’s a mineral and its main constituent is lead. And, sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not priceless … though I will grant you that that’s a beautiful specimen.”
 
            “So, it’s not silver and it’s not priceless. Do you have good news?”
 
            “No, no good news, but maybe something that will appeal to the storyteller in you.”
 
            “I’m listening.”
 
            “Well, galena is not native to this area. The nugget you found was likely brought here by an early settler or trader. Perhaps it was overlooked during the recovery of a busted crate that was tossed out of a wagon, or maybe it fell to the ground when the owner of the wagon paid the ferry operator’s fee with a scoop of galena. How it got here makes for fascinating speculation, but why it got here isn’t a mystery.”
 
            “And, why would that be.”
 
            “Like I said, its main constituent is lead—technically, lead sulfide, but the lead is easy to extract in pure form. That specimen in your hand, along with others, would likely have been used to make bullets.”
 
            “You’re telling me this beauty could have been lying here for over a hundred years and no one before me would have spotted it?”
 
            “Yes, you lucked out because the recent rise in the river may have washed off any surface soil that covered it. You happened to be in the right place at the right time. But, let me show you something you missed while you focused on finding that shiny chunk of galena.” At that point she reached down and picked up what appeared to me to be a common rock that was flat and smooth on one side.”
 
            “Are you telling me there’s a diamond hidden inside that rock?”
 
            “No, you aren’t that lucky. Actually it’s flint, and if you lived in this area ten-thousand years ago you might have used it to make an arrowhead for hunting. And, if you had lived here a hundred and thirty years ago and were being chased by Santa Anna, a wild boar, or maybe the husband of a secret lover, you’d want this, not a diamond, in the lock of your musket.”
 
            “Bly, you got me with the angry husband thing. That’s the scariest of all.”
 
            “Well, that’s not as far-fetched as you might think. It’s one of the surprising things I discovered when I came here.”
 
            “Speaking of that Bly, why are you here?”
 
            “I’m here as an archeologist on a dig for the university. Which reminds me, I need to get back to work.”
 
            I was determined, this time, not to let the opportunity pass. “Say, I’d really like to hear more about your research.”
 
            “That’d be great Beau, how about dinner tonight? I’m sleeping in a tent, so unless you want fried Spam cooked on a Coleman I’ll let you choose the place. Oh, and I’ll need a ride … again!”
 
            "Sure, as long as you keep that damned toy gun in your pocket. How about I pick you up at seven and we drive to Brenham for dinner?”

* * *

I guess I was expecting her to be dressed in the field attire of an archeologist, but when I picked her up she was wearing a khaki-colored dress with sleeves rolled up to her elbows and large blue buttons that ran from the open collar to her knees. Around her neck was a loosely tied white scarf, imprinted with what appeared to be Mayan images, and on her left wrist was a silver bracelet studded with turquoise. The ball cap was missing and the ponytail had transformed into a waterfall of reddish-brown hair splayed around her neck and shoulders. She was even wearing a hint of makeup.
 
            “You didn’t have to get dressed up for me,” I said, not knowing quite what to say.
 
            “Oh, I didn’t do it for you. I did it for myself. It’s my special occasion attire. Besides, it gives me justification for lugging around a dress that takes up valuable space in my trunk and serves no practical purpose in the field.”
 
            I felt annoyed at myself for putting my mouth before my brain, and a little annoyed at her for not sparing my fragile ego. “In that case,” I said, “I hope dinner lives up to your expectation, but it won’t be fancy. I’m not even sure they have pecan pie.”
 
            Most of our time over dinner was spent catching up. She was now Doctor Arnold, assistant professor of archeology at the University of Texas. Yes, she occasionally returned to Uvalde to visit Papa Jack—now ninety-seven and feistier than ever after giving up whiskey and cigars. Yes, she had read my Ettie Garner article. Said she thought it was excellent and had intended to congratulate me, but was tied up with her thesis at the time. And no, she wasn’t hitchhiking any more; said she now mostly takes the bus but enjoys riding her scooter on back roads when the weather is nice. There was no hesitancy in any of her answers … until I asked her about her social life.
 
            “Well it’s … what’s the word? … it’s malnourished. Between teaching and field work I haven’t much time, energy, or even desire to nurture personal relationships. There’s a nice guy with an office down the hall from mine who seems intent on changing that, but I don’t feel it—nothing close to a romantic connection he’s after. I’m fine with being friends, but that may not be enough for him. So, how about you, Beau? Are you married with nine kids?”
 
            “Okay Bly, I’ve been busy, but not that busy! No kids, not even a wife—but a close call that would have been disastrous for both of us. Like you, I’ve been consumed by my job—in my case driven to write a game-changer article that will make me a fortune and allow me to retire to the Isle of Capri. I’ve written several stories for The Atlantic but sadly my literary fame is mostly limited to the great state of Texas.”
 
            “Well, it is a big state. Besides, you’re much too young to retire.” She paused before continuing. “But, joking aside, have you considered other avenues for using your talent, your excellent writing skills?”
 
            I could sense from her tone of voice that this was more than a casual question. “No, I don’t suppose I have, at least not seriously. But, if I’m blind to an opportunity, I’m open to suggestions.”
 
            “Oh, just a thought that hit me when you mentioned making it big. I know you were kidding, but it occurred to me that the game-changer you’re seeking might take you down a different path, rather than further down the path you are on now. Before I stick my foot in my mouth, let me get clear on what I’m trying to say before I say it.”
 
            “Now you have me in suspense! How long do I have to wait?”
 
            “Let me sleep on it. If you’re still around tomorrow, how about dropping by my tent for lunch? I save the Spam for dinner, but I’ve got an extra can of pork and beans.”
 
            “In that case I’ll bring two beers and we’ll make it a feast.”

* * *

I arrived at 11:45 and headed for the coolest spot in sight—the picnic table under the oak tree near Bly’s tent. The grass beneath the tree was sparse and the ground was littered with acorn caps, giving the appearance that I had crashed a pixie party and the tiny creatures lost their pointed hats scurrying away. It was the first day of the hottest month in Texas, but the heat was still four hours away from peak. I was jotting notes in my pad when I heard her voice.
 
            “Hello Beau. I hope you haven’t waited long. Glad to see you brought the beer.”
 
            “No, I haven’t been here long—maybe ten minutes. It’s nice under this tree, but the beers are a little agitated by this August heat … they appear to be losing their cool.”
 
            “Well then, let’s put ‘em out of their misery. You pop the caps and I’ll serve up the pork and beans.”
 
            Maybe it was being on her turf or maybe it was the note we ended on at the café in Brenham … whatever the cause there was a change in her demeanor. I sensed that a line had been crossed, that our friendship had advanced from casual to comfortable. It was unfamiliar territory for me—not romantic, but different from a father-daughter relationship. After we finished the beer and beans Bly went into her tent and came out with an object wrapped in canvas.
 
            “I wanted to show you this. It’s one of the artifacts from our dig. It’s a sewing box, probably from the early nineteenth century. The objects inside are interesting, but even more interesting is what I found under the spool tray.” At that point she put on rubber gloves, lifted the tray and held up a slip of paper that looked to be in good condition, especially considering its age. “Sorry I can’t let you hold it but it’s a great find. The ink has faded and the handwriting was difficult to decipher, but turns out it’s a love letter—and a fairly juicy love letter for its time. It was written to the owner of the box—a woman named Sarah—and signed by a man named William. But, that’s not the end of the story. From other artifacts I have reason to believe Sarah was married to a guy named James.”
 
            “Aha, so Sarah and William were getting’ it on behind James’ back. Never a dull moment on the Texas frontier!”
 
            “Well, I can’t say where the affair played out or how long it lasted, but you can bet James would make a beeline for William when the lid was blown. This was a small community, the kind of place where secrets don’t remain secret for long.”
 
            “Bly, that’s an amazing story! So, you believe James did William in? And, what about Sarah, what happened to her?”
 
            “Well, here’s what I think. Somehow William found out that James was coming after him so he fled and didn’t return until he hatched a plan.”
 
            “A plan? What was the plan?”
 
            “Well, you see, William aspired to make a name for himself in the government of the new Republic of Texas. For that to happen, he needed a clean slate, totally clean.”
 
            “I see, no ex-lover’s husband to sully his immaculate reputation.”
 
            “Yes, and no ex-lover as well. What did he do? Sometime in the early morning he set fire to their cabin. And, once it was ablaze he came out of the dark to be a part of the fire brigade, conveniently allaying any suspicion. By then it was too late for Sarah and James. After they were off the scene the only loose end was the person who tipped off James. But, whether out of fear or timidity, that person never surfaced. William was one lucky—and evil—SOB; one of the pillars of our great state.”
 
            “So James was the angry husband you alluded to yesterday out on the trail. I’m curious how you uncovered so many details about this story.”
 
            “Well, we got lucky. First, the box was found inside a tin container under bricks that had once been part of their hearth. That protected it from the fire. Fortunately, Sarah went to some trouble to hide the box and its dangerous love letter. Also, since the box is made out of cypress it’s rot-resistant. But, I have a confession to make. This story is partly factual and partly speculation based on a likely scenario. To me it’s emblematic of what makes my profession so interesting. You see, in archeology we seldom have a complete picture of the truth, so we posit likely stories based on the evidence in conjunction with any context we might glean from history. I told you this story as a roundabout way of offering a suggestion. This was the flash I had last night at dinner—possibly that game-changer in your career, but that’s for you to decide.”
 
            “Okay Bly, what am I not seeing?”
 
            “Not so fast. Before I make a complete fool of myself I need to give you a little test.”
 
            “Oh my God … another damn test! I swear, this has to be a Texas thing. So what if I fail? What are the consequences?”
 
            “Well, it’s not that kind of test; it simply says something about preferences. What I’m saying is that your answer will tell me whether to share my crazy idea or keep it to myself.”
 
            “Oh, no pressure at all … the opportunity of a lifetime or a lifetime in a dead-end career. Okay, I’m ready, so ask away.”
 
            “Enough of that nonsense talk! Are you ready?”
 
            “Yeah, I’ll play nice.”
 
            “Then, let me begin this way. Yesterday on the trail we had a discussion about the nugget of galena you found and the chunk of flint that I found. If you were given the choice to select one or the other, which would it be and why?”
 
            “That’s easy, I’d go with the galena, simply because it’s prettier. So, what does that say about me? Does it mean I’m superficial?”
 
            “No, it only means you made a choice based on incomplete information. Let me tell you something else about each of them, then tell me which you would choose. Aside from their beauty and practical value, flint and galena also have symbolic meaning. Galena is said to convey serenity and tranquility while flint is said to convey courage and self-assurance. You may not believe any of that, but if you did which you would choose, galena or flint?”
 
            “You’re asking if I’d choose serenity and tranquility over courage and self-assurance, or vice-versa. Well, that makes it tougher, but I’d stick with galena, I’d choose serenity and tranquility. And, now you want to know why. Let me think how to say it.” But before I could reply one of Bly’s colleagues appeared and motioned her aside. I couldn’t make out the conversation, but whatever it was I could see Bly was extremely agitated.
 
            “Is everything okay?” I asked when she returned.
 
            “No, something horrible has happened … may still be happening. Some lunatic is shooting people on the UT campus. Katy told me the guy is on the observation deck of the tower taking random shots at anyone in sight. I’m sorry Beau, we can continue this later, but I need to get back to the campus to see if there’s anything I can do, to see if my friends are okay or need any help. What a nightmare!”
 
            “Bly, let me drive you back. I need to check in at the newsroom as well.” In truth, I didn’t want to make the trip alone.
 
            Risking a speeding ticket I was able to shave ten minutes off the drive to Austin. During the trip there was little conversation between us; we mostly listened to reports coming in over the radio. By the time we arrived in Austin the sniper had been killed, but there were police cars and ambulances everywhere. Many streets were blocked so I dropped off Bly as close as possible to the campus. I should have gone straight to the newsroom from there, but after we said our hurried goodbyes I drove to my apartment. It had been a traumatic day and I was physically and emotionally exhausted. In the chaos of the moment I had once again let her slip away, not knowing when or if I’d see her again. And, were it not for the funeral, we may never have reconnected. 

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© Copyright | Lon Roberts

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Pneuma Center
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